Jim Waring of Sonora-Town eBook

“So I’ll set and talk my fool notions—­and
you with a writin’ machine handy? Thanks,
but I reckon I’ll light a shuck for Jason.
See my piano?”

“Yes, indeed. Dorothy was trying it a few
nights ago.”

“Then she can play. Missy,” and he
called to Dorothy, who was having an extravagant romp
with Bondsman, “could you play a tune for your
Uncle Bud?”

“Of course.” And she came to them.

They walked to the cabin. Bondsman did not follow.
He had had a hard play, and was willing to rest.

Dorothy drew up the piano stool and touched the keys.
Bud sank into his big chair. Bronson stood in
the doorway. By some happy chance Dorothy played
Bud’s beloved “Annie Laurie.”

When she had finished, Bud blew his nose sonorously.
“I know that tune,” he said, gazing at
Dorothy in a sort of huge wonderment. “But
I never knowed all that you made it say.”

He rose and shuffled to the doorway, stopping abruptly
as he saw Bondsman. Could it be possible that
Bondsman had not recognized his own tune? Bud
shook his head. There was something wrong somewhere.
Bondsman had not offered to come in and accompany
the pianist. He must have been asleep. But
Bondsman had not been asleep. He rose and padded
to Shoop’s horse, where he stood, a statue of
rugged patience, waiting for Shoop to start back toward
home.

“Now, look at that!” exclaimed Bud.
“He’s tellin’ me if I want to get
back to Jason in time to catch the stage to-morrow
mornin’ I got to hustle. That there dog
bosses me around somethin’ scandalous.”

When Shoop had gone, Dorothy turned to her father.
“Mr. Shoop didn’t ask me to play very
much. He seemed in a hurry.”

“That’s all right, Peter Pan. He
liked your playing. But he has a very important
matter to attend to.”

“He’s really just delicious, isn’t
he?”

“If you like that word, Peter. He is big
and sincere and kind.”

“Oh, so were some of the saints for that matter,”
said Dorothy, making a humorous mouth at her father.

Chapter XXIII

Like One Who Sleeps

Bondsman sat in the doorway of the supervisor’s
office, gazing dejectedly at the store across the
street. He knew that his master had gone to St.
Johns and would go to Stacey. He had been told
all about that, and had followed Shoop to the automobile
stage, where it stood, sand-scarred, muddy, and ragged
as to tires, in front of the post-office. Bondsman
had watched the driver rope the lean mail bags to
the running-board, crank up the sturdy old road warrior
of the desert, and step in beside the supervisor.
There had been no other passengers. And while
Shoop had told Bondsman that he would be away some
little time, Bondsman would have known it without
the telling. His master had worn a coat—­a
black coat—­and a new black Stetson.
Moreover, he had donned a white shirt and a narrow
hint of a collar with a black “shoe-string”
necktie. If Bondsman had lacked any further proof
of his master’s intention to journey far, the
canvas telescope suitcase would have been conclusive
evidence.